I Am Not Nice

So Lisa and I are working at the co-op over the weekend, doing our two hours for the 10 percent discount, and she sees a guy in a blue padded sleeve that you put cold water into after shoulder surgery.

Hmph. Looks like me. Except I'm bagging. And he's grimacing. I shake my head in sympathy.

"Had one of those after my acromioplasty," I say.

"Yeah," he sighs, "I've had it for two days now."

Two days? Ummmmm, two days after my little shoulder job, I was scarfing down painkillers like an ether-addled rhesus monkey with a meth habit, to boot. Two days? I keep a straight face.

"Well, you should be able to get rid of it in a week," I say.

"Yeah," he grins, "I hope so. Doesn't that bagging hurt? When did you have your surgery?"

Despite the fact that I've just taken a big, fat pill because my shoulder is killing me after only an hour of bagging, I can't resist:

"Last week."

On other fronts, I've gotta, gotta, gotta get back in gear on the Book.

And wake up earlier to do an hour of physical therapy exercises.

Wrap up a bunch of stuff at the day job.

And start hitting the elliptical.